


But my sins must have been holy

by aykayem



Category: Like Minds | Murderous Intent (2006)
Genre: Body Worship, Introspection, M/M, Power Play, Religious Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-11
Updated: 2015-01-11
Packaged: 2018-03-07 03:23:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3159386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aykayem/pseuds/aykayem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nigel is of the belief that he and Alex are something more than human; Alex doesn’t care one way or another if they are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But my sins must have been holy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dionysian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dionysian/gifts).



_“oh, but my sins must have been holy,  
for the way I worshipped him.”_

Alex had never been overly concerned with right and wrong. His very existence could be considered ‘wrong’ by some, after all; his mother was dead and by his hand, however unintentionally it may have been. He didn’t let it bother him. What did it matter, in the grand scheme of things? He was what he was: remorseless, psychotic, wild, free, whatever he wanted to be, and whatever he wanted to mould himself into. Let those around him frown or scoff in disapproval, let them tell him that he wasn’t following their rules. Whatever their rules, he wanted no part of them; he wanted no part of their religion that so rigidly bound him to certain elements of history and ignored the rest, citing it as heretical.

What if he _wanted_ to be heretical? What if _that_ was his truth? Then so be it. His father was in no position to tell him he couldn’t, no more than the holy men at school, the lot of them who wanted only to bind the lot of them - his classmates, boring and bright-eyed for a future that was set out for them since birth - to what was Written and what was Known.

Fuck what was Written; fuck what was Known. In all his years at the school, Alex had never once seen something they taught that resonated with him. It was so much better to read on his own, educate himself on what wasn’t being taught, on what he was being told, from day one, was terrible and in the wrong. The Templars, for example; who was really telling the truth there?

History, after all, was written by the winners. You could never trust the political slant going on there.

And furthermore, history - in a way - was boring. Predictable. Bloody, yes, but full of the same thing over and over again. Alex wanted something new.

x

Nigel had been new. Very new, in fact; he was a breath of fresh air, if that air was polluted and tinged with the reek of formalin and death. Never before had something been so intriguing, so tempting, so full of life that it actually attracted Alex’s attention and held it. And yet, there Nigel was, practically dropped right into Alex’s lap one day, all pretty eyes and pretty mouth and pretty words. If anything at all in the world was heretical, it was sure to be Nigel Colbie. And wasn’t that, in a way, what made him so desirable?

Nigel wasn’t concerned with what was right or wrong either; he just wanted to know what made things tick. By definition, he stirred things up, throwing a wrench into the best laid plans of the mice calling themselves men until everything was on its ear, and he had wormed his way into Alex’s head in more way than one. Surely it was impossible to take over someone’s mind, to slither into their ear and wind your way around their brain until there wasn’t a crease or crevice that remained without niggling thoughts that weren’t their own, but that was what happened. They were soulmates, if ever there was a time for that; they were one being, waiting to come back together at the end of the run.

x

Nigel _worshipped_ him.

That was the only way to describe it. It didn’t matter where or when or what was happening; Alex could feel familiar eyes on the back of his neck, the gaze intense and nothing short of wanting. There was a certain sort of passion that Nigel managed to employ in that subtle way of his, like a tiger stalking its prey. Except, instead of wanting to tear apart that prey, the tiger wanted to submit, to rescind its tiger nature and roll over, baring its belly to the prey, to let its prey tear it open instead as though there was nothing better in the world than that.

Nigel was fucked up. But Alex loved him that way. So really, who was worse?

x

The room is filled with soft gasping. They are panting for air, for more, for teeth against skin. For bruises left behind as reminders that it isn’t just a dream, something half-imagined and hoped for.

Neither is submissive, not really. Of course, if they fell within the realm of normal expectations, they’d both disappoint, and that would be a first. Not once can either declare with any sort of honesty that they’ve been disappointed; honesty isn’t really their strong suit anyway, though. Alex can spin a web of lies faster than anyone, adding a level of depth and intricacy not even achieved in most people’s lives. If Nigel were ever to love anything in his strange heart, he’d love that; he’d love the control Alex has over the world around him, the way he can wind it to suit his needs.

It’s safe to say that even Nigel himself has bent and contorted to suit Alex’s needs. He is, after all, a weapon meant for his hands only. It’s only fitting that they’ve come to this.

Their bodies fit together like two pieces of a puzzle; the brush of their skin is electric, buzzing and humming and thrumming with something almost more than earthly. Neither knows who the one gasping is, nor the one groaning or crying out in an aborted fashion, muffling the sound against the other’s mouth or skin. They’re fumbling, but with a purpose. Alex’s hands are wandering as they clutch at Nigel, seeking out every part that makes him sigh out Alex’s name in that desperate fashion; it’s always ‘ _Jack_ ’, breathed out like a prayer.

They’re abominable according to some, the pair of them rutting and stroking beneath the sheets of Alex’s bed while Nigel’s remains untouched and pristine across the room. It’s the only thing that remains pristine in that room, that den of what everyone else in the school would cite as ‘sin’, in no uncertain terms. There are words for boys who like boys, but Alex can’t be arsed to pay any more heed to that than he does the flighty rambling of the holy men, each going blue in the face as they fluster themselves over some element of this holy war or that.

Nigel’s hands are rough and cruel as he encourages Alex on, cutting half-moons into Alex’s skin. The marks won’t last long, or maybe they will; maybe this time, they’ll draw blood and spill it onto the cotton like a sacrifice. They’re praying to their own gods right that moment, and it’s with another bitten off cry of ‘ _Jack_ ’ that the prayer comes to a head and the room is silent and their bodies finally still.

x

No one would ever guess that there was a change. They were always blissfully oblivious, their heads in the clouds, surrounded by delusions of what they wanted to call reality. Alex knew better, all because Nigel had helped open his eyes; Nigel knew better, because his existence was to open Alex’s eyes. He had made Alex’s mind his home, coiled around his brain stem and nestled in. They were two parts of a whole, and eventually that whole had to come together. It was an inevitability; it was destiny, it was fate. It was eternity, staring them in the face and inviting them in like an old friend. 


End file.
